


Systems of Ideas and Principles, Personified

by Misty_Floros



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, Gen, Ideologies Personified, Satire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-22 05:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21070364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misty_Floros/pseuds/Misty_Floros
Summary: Colonialism, also known as Sir Arthur Kirkland, is a retired gentleman who spends his time knitting. He left the scene a few decades ago, suceeded by his wonderful son, Neo-Colonialism, and is now living off the fruits of his labour (or you know... “his” labour). His deteriorating marriage, however, keeps him from enjoying the well-earned respite.100% satire, 100% crack.





	Systems of Ideas and Principles, Personified

Their marriage used to be a harmonious one. It used to be the two of them against the world, or to be more precise, the two of them against all the poor and the less fortunate of the world. It was a glorious, never-ending fairytale of industrialisation, injustice, exploitation, and economic growth. Sir Arthur Kirkland, also known as Colonialism, still dreams about it sometimes.

He doesn’t admit it easily, but he’s lonely nowadays. The only person who still genuinely likes him is his mother, Imperialism. His oldest son, Racism, has left the house a long time ago to shack up with Fascism and his buddies. At least Neo-Colonialism still keeps up good father-son relations, and he’s a child Colonialism can be very proud of. He’s taken over the family business a few decades ago, runs it well and sometimes stops by to bring him cheap bananas or new clothes.

Colonialism’s husband, who’s at the height of his career, doesn’t have much time for marital life, busy as he is. There’s almost no spark between them anymore, and Colonialism knows that his dear hubby Capitalism has had many an affair on the side.

One Sunday afternoon things take a turn for the worse. Colonialism is sitting in his living room, which is decorated with traditional souvenirs from those poor, in-need-of-his-oh-so-generous-help developing countries (see, he can appreciate the savages’ culture), when the door flies open and in barges Capitalism, known as Alfred F. Jones to those close to him.

“Hey. I need your help,” he says without preamble.

Colonialism lifts his eyes from the knitting needles slowly. “Lovely afternoon to you, too.” Then he stops in his tracks. Capitalism is holding a small child. On a second thought, “small” isn’t an accurate description. The child, while short in height, is incredibly fat. It’s holding a Coca-Cola can in one hand and a hamburger from McDonald’s in the other.

“What the hell is that?!” Colonialism spits.

“It’s not a ‘what,’ it’s a kid,” Capitalism says. “My son, to be precise.”

“That’s dreadful.”

“Stop being rude. You really need to work on your tolerance of other people, you know,” Capitalism huffs.

“Look who’s talking,” Colonialism barks.

“You – you’re such an asshole,” Capitalism complains.

“So are you,” Colonialism mutters.

“Woah, woah. That’s just leftist,” Capitalism chides. “Ow!” he yelps then – Consumerism has started gnawing at his shoulder. Capitalism beams down at him. “Oh, we’re hungry, aren’t we?”

Consumerism nods frantically. Capitalism pulls a Snickers out of his pocket and hands it to him. Consumerism rips the packaging open and shoves the bar in his mouth.

Capitalism stares down at him adoringly. “Look how cute his cheeks are!” he says, pinching those enormous blobs of fat on the child’s face. “Sweetie, show your uncle here what you can say.”

“Mass produshion,” babbles the child with his mouth full and beams proudly.

“Adorable,” Colonialism deadpans and crosses his arms. “So I’m the uncle, huh? Who’s his other parent?”

Capitalism shrugs. “Doesn’t have one, probably. All my genes, this one. He’s me but more… _more_. In every way.”

The child chuckles in delight as he devours the Snickers with abandon.

“I can see that,” Colonialism drawls, taking in the child’s appearance. “Didn’t inherit your fast metabolism, though, did he?”

Capitalism frowns. “What? He totally did. All he consumes just flows through his system. It’s part of his charm.”

Colonialism stares in horrified fascination as the child finishes his chocolate bar. “Right.”

“Anyway,” Capitalism continues and puts the child down, “I need you to look after him for a few hours. Gotta run.”

Colonialism folds his arms. “Absolutely not.”

“Please! I need to go to Environmentalism’s for some greenwashing. It's urgent,” Capitalism explains hurriedly, already halfway out of the door.

“Calm down and come back here.”

“No, this is serious. I don’t want to end up like you. What if Socialism takes over or something? So, just look after Consumerism for a little while, and I’ll be right back.”

“Wait. I want to talk about this,” Colonialism says sharply, making a threatening gesture with one of the needles. “What makes you think you can just drag in a child which isn’t mine and expect me to take care of them?”

Capitalism stops on the threshold, passing a hand over his face. “Geez, I thought we’ve been over this. Our marriage isn’t exactly yielding any profit anymore, as you know.”

“I’m aware. But you know how I cling to things, and I –”

“Dude, I don’t have time your possessiveness issues. We’ve agreed on an open relationship, haven’t we?”

“Yes. But… but having dalliances is one thing; having children on the side is another. I’ve tolerated a lot. I’ve even tolerated your affair with Globalism, but this is going too far!”

Hearing his raised voice, Consumerism starts bawling.

“Aw, don’t cry, pumpkin,” Capitalism coos. “I’ll get you some candy from the kitchen, how does that sound?”

Consumerism nods tearfully and Capitalism disappears in the adjacent room, emerging a few seconds later with a plastic bag full of small colourful packets. Consumerism makes grabby hands.

“I’m not looking after him,” Colonialism informs his husband.

“Yeah, fine. I’ll just take him to the greenwashing with me.”

“You do that. He could use it.”

The door is slammed shut. Colonialism sighs and goes back to knitting.


End file.
